The Runner (12 page)

Bullet shrugged. It wasn't his problem. He dropped the bottle onto the ground by Tamer's arm. Tamer sat up and sipped from the straw.

“You knew, didn't you? Save your breath, Whitey; I know you knew how bad it would be in a race. My question is, did you know the rest of us didn't?”

Bullet considered not answering, then decided to. “People seem to think if they can run a practice they can run a race.”

“Born jackasses,” Tamer said, glaring up at Bullet.

You're no better.

“Anyway, I finished,” Tamer said.

“Usually nobody does the first time,” Bullet allowed him; it was the simple truth.

“Did you fall?” There was no sympathy in the question, or in the glance at his leg.

“A nail on one of those fences.” Blood was oozing through the gauze again. He'd have to rewrap it.

“They gave me no trouble,” the guy announced. “No trouble a-tall. How about leaving me be, Tillerman. I don't much like your company.”

Bullet almost grinned.
Suits me.
He went to rebandage his leg.

B
ullet sat alone on the way back, across from the coach. Behind him, he heard the voices reassuring themselves that they hadn't done too badly, had they? Justifying their poor performances to one another, envying the setup at Acorn, declaring that they could look just as good, if, and if, and if.
If you'd work at it, work for it,
Bullet thought. Then, after they had eaten, the voices got louder, relieved that the meet was behind them and able to forget exactly how it had gone. Bullet stayed out of it. He wasn't about to mess with them, people who made excuses for themselves. That kept him pretty much alone, he knew; it marked one of the differences. He had his own life in his own hands, that was the difference. Not perfectly in his own hands, not entirely, he wasn't a fool and he knew that wasn't possible. But he ran himself. They didn't, simple as that; they didn't and they knew he did, and they admired him for it and disliked him. Too bad. Maybe. Maybe they'd grow up some time. He didn't care: that had nothing to do with him. He was his own business, he knew what he wanted and whenever he could he went for that. When he couldn't—like the draft—he did what he had to and no more, like school. Besides, he wasn't so sure he'd mind the army. Talk about natural habitats, he thought to himself, feeling the smile that washed over his features. He'd decide about that too, sometime, and he knew that when he'd decided he
could count on himself to act out his own decisions.

Opposite him, as they went alongside Cambridge, through Salisbury, turned southwest to head back to Crisfield, the motor of the bus grinding loudly, the coach sat silent in his seat. He sat silent, but not quiet—he shifted his weight, he banged occasionally with his fist on his thigh, he put his chin in his hand and stared out the window, thinking so hard you could almost hear the sound of gears even over the motor. Bullet could figure out what he was thinking. This was his third year on the track team, he'd been at two other opening meets. The coach was thinking how much better
this
first meet was than earlier years. He was thinking that victory might be within reach, or if not victory then at least honorable defeat. He was figuring out some kind of pep talk for the end of the trip, before they got off the bus, to get everyone working harder, trying harder.

When the bus nosed up to the water's edge in Crisfield and the engine fell silent, the coach stood up at the front, clipboard in his hand. “Okay. I know some of you—most of you—are thinking we didn't do so hot today,” he called down the length of the bus. Groans and brief sarcastic bursts of laughter answered him.

“Okay. I know. But I know something you smart guys don't. I've never had a team look so good the first time out. That's God's truth.”

A surprised silence answered him.

“God's truth,” the coach repeated.

Rumbles of pleasure went along the bus behind Bullet. “Then last year must of been really bad,” somebody said.

“We're gonna work,” the coach announced. “We're gonna work harder than you thought you could. And here's why: because I think we can get somewhere. Now listen up good to
this, because you're not gonna hear me say it again—all you're gonna hear from me is criticism and yelling from now on—so here's your one chance to hear what it's about.”

They sat alert.

“You're good enough. All of you. Not just the old streamlined wonder”—he lifted a hand from the back of the seat to indicate Bullet—“but everyone. I'll be expecting you to do us proud, every one of you. Whaddayou say?”

Somebody called out, “Sounds okay to me, Coach.” Others echoed, “Yeah. Me too.”

“Let's hear it louder,” the coach called. “Do you say okay?”

“Okay!” they roared.

He stood back to let them pour out of the bus and into the waiting cars. He and Bullet got off last. The bus was driving off as they got into the coach's car. The coach inserted his keys and sat for a minute, letting the motor warm up, looking out over the harbor where low workboats rocked at their moorings under late-afternoon sunlight. “You too, Tillerman.”

I always run my best.

The coach backed the car around and headed out of town.

“There's some possibility there this year. I'll tell you.” He stopped at an intersection by a rundown Victorian house with two unmatched towers that looked out over the street with broken windows. “It would feel good to show them.”

Show who?
Bullet wondered.

“They slap the job on me, knowing I can't refuse, then don't give me anything for supplies, or proper equipment—nothing, barely any upkeep even. If I had the kind of staff we saw today, and equipment, and space . . . I mean, what do I know about hurdling, or cross-country?”

Not much,
Bullet agreed.

“I been a laughing stock,” the coach said, slapping on the
wheel with the palm of his hand. “But this year . . . I don't expect to win, or anything, but how'd you like to look good at the state championships this year? How would that feel? That would feel pretty good, wouldn't it.”

Bullet shrugged. He came in first, that was what he did. But he guessed the coach might prefer the whole team to do better.

“So I got a favor to ask you, kid. Not a big one. I want you to train Shipp in cross-country, okay?” He looked over at Bullet.

Bullet shook his head.

“Sure you can,” the coach told him. “And he's got guts—he wasn't even supposed to run today, his
wife
called me up, a wife, can you believe it? I'll never understand those people; not in a hundred years. The guy's in high school. Doctor said, she told me, take it easy for a week. But you saw him. He hasn't got your talent, I know that. But he's got guts. And that counts for a lot, doesn't it?”

Bullet didn't say anything.

The coach pulled over by the Tillermans' mailbox. “Don't get out. You'll do it, won't you?”

“No,” Bullet said.

Silence greeted this remark. Then, “This is no time for jokes, Tillerman.”

Bullet didn't say anything. He waited. He made his own decisions and stood by them; he played by his own rules. The coach knew that.

“Why not?” the coach asked.

“He's colored.”

“So what? What's that got to do with anything? Some of them are great athletes, you got to respect that.”

No, Bullet didn't, he didn't see how that had anything to do with the point in question.

“This is the team we're talking about.”

“I don't mix,” Bullet said.

“You're telling me you won't work with him, because he's a Negro?”

That's right.

“You're on the team. That's mixing.”

I run cross-country.

“Tillerman, I'm telling you to train him. Whatever you happen to feel in that little pea brain of yours. It's an order. You hear me?”

“No,” Bullet said.

“You won't? You're telling me you won't? Won't you?”

“No,” Bullet repeated patiently.

The coach took a deep breath. “Then as of now, as of this minute”—he spat out the words—“you are off the team. And not running. I don't need any swellheaded prima donna, a
bald
prima donna, who doesn't play on the team. Who can't take orders. Damn your eyes, Tillerman, I've let you be, let you go, given you what you wanted. What's with you?”

Bullet got out of the car. He jogged up the rutted driveway between the two fields. He was about halfway along when he heard the car start off with a squealing of rubber. And he was angry, angry at being backed into a corner like that and then the coach throwing him off the team—as if he cared about that. He made his own decisions and he'd never complained about the price he paid. He was willing to pay this price too. He didn't have to run with the team, the coach could suit himself about that. That was the coach's problem. But nobody was going to tell Bullet how to run his life, nobody was going to make him do something he didn't want to because they wanted him to. He didn't like people trying that trick on him.

Bullet didn't go after the coloreds, he wasn't out to get them; he just kept clear. He didn't mix. He didn't like them, didn't like anything about them, the way they looked or talked, the things they did, the music they played or the way they danced, the way their minds worked. . . . He didn't like much of anyone, come to that, but he didn't like coloreds more than he didn't like other people. Bullet figured he was allowed his prejudice. Nobody had the right to take that away from him, nobody was going to do that to him.

*   *   *

He had time on his hands now. Now that he no longer had practice, he often stopped by Patrice's on his way home. Patrice didn't expect to see him, didn't act surprised. Bullet didn't say much, just sat on an upturned hull and watched Patrice work over the fourteen-footer. He'd removed all of the curved floorboards and was sanding down the sloping sides to smooth, bare wood. “I could sand,” Bullet offered.

Patrice said no. “You don't have the patience, you don't have the touch.”

“I bet I could get the transom off for you.”

“Yes, that you can, please,” Patrice said. He didn't watch as Bullet wrested loose the cracked pieces of wood, hammering at them to work them free.

“I could teach you to do this,” Patrice offered, bent over the tedious job. “If you would like.”

“No, thanks. Will you be able to get the oak?”

“Of course. The question you want to ask is, will I be able to get it at a price I like. That”—he forestalled Bullet's question—“I do not yet know.” And he was off, talking about differences in lumber yards, about the men who ran them and worked in them. Bullet listened, easy with Patrice because Patrice was easy, at ease, an easy man.

If Patrice wasn't there, or if Bullet felt like it, he went straight home and took his twenty-two out, to get his eye back. He shot at crows, squirrels, rabbits, whatever he saw as he moved through the woods beyond the fields, or the pines between them. Once he got the Smith and Wesson, once the season opened, he could work on targeting. For the time, he worked on reflexes. He moved quiet and slow through the shady sparse woods, using his peripheral vision, alert to any movement. You caught movement and had to get the gun up, the shot off, before the creature moved away. It took patience and constant alertness—it was an instant reaction he was working for. Every now and again he would run into OD, or she would sometimes follow him out; but she was useless. She moved clumsily through the underbrush, warning everything. He'd throw a branch at her, or kick her. At least she didn't bark, that was something.

He did get one crow, which tumbled off the branch and into a bush with a squawk. Not thinking, he shot an egret—his eye caught by the flash of white moving up from the bank, his reaction instinctive. The bird slid down the air with one wing dragging. Bullet didn't think it would survive.

And he ran, every evening, the ten-mile course. He even ran it the drizzly evening after their first day of oystering, when his shoulders and the backs of his legs felt like they'd been tied up in knots. Six hours of leaning over the side of the boat with his arms stretched out. Six hours of forcing the tongs at the end of their long handles down into the muddy bottom. The hard work came after that, pulling the handles apart to close the teeth and hauling them straight up, hand over hand, while you leaned out over the water to keep them vertical. At least he and Patrice took shifts on that. It wasn't grip or dexterity you needed for oysters. All you needed was strength and stamina. Running, that first evening, Bullet felt the knotted muscles pulling loose, each
separate strand of muscle forced to stretch out and trying to snap back into the knot.

After the first weekend, a couple of people spoke to him about dropping track. Jim, with Ted Bayson at his back, congratulated Bullet on getting out of a losing situation.

“I wasn't losing,” Bullet said.

“Okay, okay.” Jim backed off. “I was just wondering if you'd like to try football. We wouldn't mind that. We're two, one and zero so far.”

Bullet shook his head.

A couple of track people tried to get him to come back. “We don't have much of a chance without you.”

“Chance for what?”

“Getting to the state championships. Hell, we don't have any chance without you.”

Bullet shrugged.

“But what's your beef?”

Cheryl's reaction was to say maybe Bullet was starting to grow up and attend to what was important; but after Jackson found out why he wasn't doing track—how, Bullet didn't know—they also demanded, “What's your beef? You're cutting off your nose to spite your face, man.”